


show me a good time

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, teasing and snark galore cos that's how i do, which is also just a front for my favourite tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:21:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6617620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She jerks round to stare at him, gaping at his nonchalant expression. "Wait. What are you doing here?"</p><p>He quirks a brow, glancing ahead at the queue and back at her. “What are <i>you</i> doing here?"</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Or, the one where Clarke finds herself on a spite date with Bellamy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	show me a good time

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this tumblr post](http://swingsetindecember.tumblr.com/post/142657496327/the-next-fandom-trope-i-hope-takes-off-a-spite).
> 
>  
> 
> _the next fandom trope i hope takes off: a spite date_  
>  two people who hate each other meet by chance in a typical date venue and refuse to leave because it would mean the other person won. it turns out to be a lovely evening, if you ignore the glaring and the refusal to change seats or split a dessert  
> “YOU’D LIKE THAT WOULDN’T YOU!”
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> also inspired by [this Daredevil scene](http://marvelgifs.tumblr.com/post/140917478303) that made me laugh for absolutely no reason at all, and again when i saw it on tumblr.
> 
>  
> 
> (title from 'Show Me a Good Time' by Drake)

 

 

 

 

 

Clarke bounces back and forth on her heels, pushing herself up on the tips of her boot-clad toes to shoot another impatient glare along the frankly ridiculous queue crowding the restaurant entrance, given that it’s a Tuesday night and _no one_ should be anywhere that isn’t work or home. A party of four rambunctious people — kids, really — is arguing loudly with the hostess, making a big fuss over the exact table they want. Ugh. _Youth._

 

She grits her teeth and resists the urge to sigh yet again, pulling out her phone again to survey the online menu for what has to be the fifty-eighth time in four days. She’s had this reservation for two weeks now, desperately looking forward to treating herself to a nice, quiet dinner alone in celebration of the month-long hell she’s just put herself through. After four consecutive weeks of endless phone calls and emails and text messages and playing catch-up with her social life, she’s going to sit down and have a good meal all by herself, with no one to convey orders or instructions to, work together with or, best of all, pay attention to.

 

Scrolling through the menu again, she hums quietly to herself in anticipation of the ceviche she’s had her heart set on since she saw the first Internet reviews when Polis opened up two months ago. She flicks between pictures of the sea bass and the salmon, mouth already starting to water at the sharp, clean images of the delicious-looking food.

 

She glances up as a group of three girls flounce away from the hostess stand and past her, looking very expensive and very offended. She ducks her head down to hide her grin that’s composed of pure schadenfreude. _That, ladies,_ Clarke imagines telling them, _is what you get when you don’t plan ahead._

 

She’s still smiling into her phone screen when someone steps up next to her.

 

“That salmon say something funny, princess?”

 

She flinches, whipping her head round to find, of all people, Bellamy fucking Blake, standing beside her on the pavement like he goddamn belongs there.

 

“Yes,” she bites back immediately, instantly slipping in combat mode.

 

Bellamy tucks his hands into his jean pockets, smirking deviously at her. “Not gonna share the joke? Come on, princess. I can take it, no matter how _fishy_.” He grins then, one of those signature _I’m-Bellamy-Blake_ grins of the 100% shit-eating variety.

 

“ _You’re_ fishy,” she retorts, as they automatically shuffle forward with the rest of the queue.

 

He barks a soundless laugh, short and sharp. Not her best. Whatever, it’s her first day off in over two weeks, okay?

 

She jerks round to stare at him again, gaping at his nonchalant expression. “Wait. What are you doing here?”

 

He quirks a brow, glancing ahead at the queue and back at her. “What are you doing here?”

 

Her brows knit together instantly, her face scrunching up in indignation. “What are _you_ doing here?!”

 

He frowns in confusion, looking her up and down. “What are _you_ doing here?!” he returns, starting to appear genuinely miffed.

 

“I’m—” she’s briefly distracted as the queue moves forward again. “—Wha— it’s my day off!”

 

“Mine too,” he says, still frowning at her like she’s the one encroaching on _his_ personal time.

 

“Since wh—” She pauses abruptly when she remembers Octavia telling her that Bellamy usually has Tuesdays off, with no classes to teach.

 

Well _shit_.

 

“Since all the time,” he says, raising a lofty brow at her. “Since when do _you_ get Tuesdays off? Aren’t you guys on, I don’t know, whatever the art gallery version of high alert mode is?”

 

She blinks, a little taken aback that he even knows this. “Yeah. I mean, yeah, we were. The exhibit wrapped up on Sunday, so Anya gave us a couple days off after cleanup yesterday.”

 

He nods, jerking his jaw at the moving queue to prompt her into taking another step forward. “No wonder O isn’t trying to set me up tonight.”

 

She wrinkles her nose, glancing up at him. “Did you just make a reference to your sister and Lincoln having se—”

 

“Don’t,” he cuts in with a raised hand, eyes sliding shut in regret. “Please… don’t.”

 

She casts around briefly, suddenly incredibly uncomfortable with the situation she’s found herself in. She’s in line for a table at the shiny new restaurant in town, surrounded by couples left and right, with one of her best friends’ _older brother_ at her side.

 

This would probably be marginally less awkward if she and Bellamy actually got along — regular conversations, _how-are-you’s_ and polite smiles instead of lengthy arguments, biting remarks and rolled eyes.

 

The couple in front of them is led into the restaurant, and she suddenly realises — her mood instantly buoyed — that he probably won’t be able to get in anyway. She has a _reservation_.

 

“Hi,” the hostess greets chirpily, two perfect rows of white teeth framed by perfect glossed lips. “Do you have a reservation?”

 

“Yes,” they both answer at the same time. They immediately exchange surprised glances, breaking away from each other’s gazes after a split second.

 

“It’s Griffin, Clarke Griffin,” she says, taking a tiny step forward.

 

“Bellamy Blake,” he volunteers, his deep baritone low and lazy with that tone she’s heard enough times to recognise as his _I’m-charming-and-I-know-it_ voice.

 

The hostess scans through her clipboard, one perfectly manicured fingernail landing about two-thirds down the list with a perky _‘ah!’_ “Here we are! Miss Griffin and Mr. Blake, both for seven o’clock?”

 

“That’s it,” Clarke says, suddenly wishing the hostess would hurry the hell up. “Can I be seated now, please?”

 

“Actually,” the hostess says, looking up at them with her bright plastic grin still in place, “there’s been a slight problem with your reservations. As you can see, we’re practically overflowing tonight—” she gestures behind her with a slender hand, an apologetic note creeping into her voice “—and we’re terribly afraid we won’t be able to accommodate any solo diners for tonight.”

 

Clarke stares at her.

 

“We could reschedule your reservations with us right now,” the hostess continues, lips and teeth gleaming under dim fluorescent lighting. “On the other hand, _could_ we encourage you to perhaps combine your appointments?” She winks cheerfully at them both. “We find parties of two are always so much more _fun_ , don’t you?”

 

No.

 

Just, _no._

 

“Um,” Clarke manages, completely stunned.

 

“Are you sure?” Bellamy steps forward, coming up beside her stock-still form. “I could just come back later, if that works.”

 

“Unfortunately,” the hostess twitters, turning her shiny grin on him, “we just _won’t_ be able to accommodate any solo diners tonight! So, either you and your—” her gaze flicks over to a slack-jawed Clarke, “— _friend_ can dine together, or both of you will have to reschedule.” Her grin stretches even wider, head tilting to the side. “We apologise sincerely for any inconvenience caused!”

 

 _Who,_ Clarke wants to scream at her, _the **fuck** is ‘WE’?!_

 

“That’s alright, thanks,” Bellamy tells her, a hint of gruffness lacing his voice. “We’ll take a table now, then. Whatever’s great.”

 

The hostess nods and turns away — _‘one moment, please!’_ — leaving them in front of an empty stand.

 

“I’m not leaving,” Clarke says when she finally regains control of her senses, glaring up at him.

 

“Neither am I,” he shoots back instantly, arms folding across his broad chest, which, she suddenly realises, happens to be encased in a rather nice shirt — a warm shade of walnut that brings out the brown in his eyes.

 

“Yes you are,” she hisses, recovering quickly from the brief distraction. “We’re going to sit down, order some shit and you’re going to remember that you actually have some other place to be right after appetisers.”

 

“Or you could just leave after getting your ceviche fix,” he calmly counters, lifting a dark brow at her.

 

Her jaw works soundlessly for a second. “How did you—”

 

“Your table is ready,” the hostess announces, suddenly reappearing in front of them. “This way, please!”

 

They exchange pointed glares all the way to the little table to the far left of the restaurant, a painting of a man playing some kind of horn hanging on the wall just above them. They drape their jackets over two chairs opposite each other, sliding into their seats as they shoot wary looks across the electric tea light in the middle of the table. They’re immediately presented with menus, their waitress dashing away after cheerfully promising to be back in a minute.

 

“Don’t bother ordering a main,” Clarke tells him acidly as she scans through the food items she’s already pored over scores of times on her laptop screen. “You have someplace to be in about ten minutes.”

 

He scoffs, eyes focused on his own menu. “Don’t worry, princess. I’ll finish your salmon for you. Ceviche too, if you happen to leave any.”

 

“Don’t count on it,” she grits out, glaring directly at him. He lifts a brow in challenge.

 

“Good evening, and welcome to Polis,” their waitress chimes in, oblivious to the ongoing stare-off. “Are we ready to order, or do you need—”

 

“Ceviche for the lady,” Bellamy says clearly, eyes still locked on Clarke’s. “And the Bruschetta Cubana for me.” He pulls away from Clarke’s narrowed gaze to smile up at the waitress briskly tapping into her PDA-type device. “And two glasses of the house white, please.”

 

“Two house whites, coming right up,” the waitress repeats, throwing them a perfunctory smile before sailing away.

 

“So,” Bellamy says, returning to his menu with a smirk that she finds stupid and definitely not at all attractive, “you straight out dating yourself now? Or is this just an attempt to break the Clarke Griffin habit of living in sweatpants outside the gallery?”

 

She frowns, glancing down a little self-consciously at her ruffled top. It’s a little dressier than what she normally wears to hang out with her friends, but so what? Polis is a nicer place than the beer-soaked booth they usually spend their free time in at Grounders.

 

“Either way, it’s definitely not for _you_ ,” she says, somewhat snippily. She waves a hand at the painting. “Feel free to stare at Kenny G for the rest of the night.”

 

To her surprise, he chuckles at that. “That’d be a shame. I doubt Kenny’s gonna let me steal a bite of the salmon.”

 

“Neither am I,” she responds, but there’s no heat behind her crackling tone.

 

Their eyes meet across the table. She breaks away first, glancing down at her menu. “I might not even get the salmon. The sea bass looks pretty good too.”

 

“You can’t get that,” Bellamy instantly says, and her gaze snaps back up, already readying herself for another altercation. “We can’t _both_ get the sea bass. How are we gonna try the salmon then?”

 

She stares at him, all the fight suddenly deflated out of her system.

 

Their waitress drops two glasses of white wine at their tables, departing just as quickly with a bright _‘cheers!’_

 

Bellamy clears his throat, reaching out for his glass. “I’ll get the sea bass, if you get the salmon. Deal?”

 

She considers him for a long moment. Damn it. She’s been lusting after that salmon for the better part of two weeks.

 

But she also really, _really_ wants to try the sea bass.

 

Fuck it all.

 

She picks up her own glass, coolly meeting his gaze as she clinks her glass rim to his. “Deal.” They sip at their wines, still locked in their silent standoff.

 

She sets her glass down, raising her chin defiantly. “And then you’re leaving right after that. I’m having my dessert in peace, Blake. I’ve earned it.”

 

The corner of his mouth pulls upward, strangely more amused than irritated. “We’ll see about that, princess.”

 

They lapse into a momentary silence. She doesn’t notice at first; she’s too busy wondering if she should be fuming over his uncooperative response.

 

“How was the exhibit?”

 

She blinks, completely thrown at the sudden one-eighty in the mood. “Fine,” she answers, still watching him warily.

 

He plays with the stem of his glass, rubbing it lightly between the pads of his fingers (which she definitely doesn’t watch). “Just ‘fine’? You haven’t slept for a whole month for something to turn out just ‘fine’?”

 

She leans back slightly, her gaze narrowing in suspicion. “How do you know that?”

 

He’s smiling like he’s privy to some secret she’s supposed to know. “You realise my sister’s fiancé works in the same gallery as you, right?”

 

She presses her lips together, averting her gaze in semi-embarrassment. “Oh. Right.”

 

He exhales, eyes darting around their surroundings before returning to her. “Plus it wasn’t exactly hard to notice. You only ever reply group texts at, like, two in the morning. Also, you’re distracted every time we’re at Grounders — if you even show up, that is.”

 

She doesn’t even have time to gape at him in surprise — their waitress returns with their appetisers, setting their plates in front of them with a flash of pearly white teeth, asking if they’ve decided on their main courses.

 

“Yes — she will have the salmon, please,” Bellamy says to the waitress, one hand reaching out to take Clarke’s menu from her inert fingers. “And I will have the sea bass. Thank you.” He hands both menus to the waitress, smiling politely.

 

She takes the menus with a sprightly nod, sailing away as she taps rapidly on her PDA.

 

There’s a brief second where Clarke realises that Bellamy’s already picking up his knife and fork. She starts in her chair slightly, reaching for her own.

 

She clears her throat as she spears into a small cube of what looks like sweet potato. “It’s been, uh, pretty insane at work. This was the biggest project we’ve ever done.” She huffs slightly at her own words. “As Anya made sure to remind us six times a day.”

 

He grins down at his bruschetta, nodding slightly. “Have I told you how much fun your boss seems to be?”

 

“Several times,” she replies, arching a sardonic brow. “Far too many, considering you’ve only met her the one time.”

 

He shakes his head, still smiling. “Twice.”

 

She glances back up sharply, mid-chew. “Excuse me?”

 

He shrugs, deftly lifting a slice of bruschetta off his plate and onto hers. “She was there that day I dropped your phone charger off at the gallery.”

 

She stares at him, her jaw dropping slightly. “You told me you gave it to Lincoln!”

 

He frowns slightly at her accusatory tone. “I did. She just happened to be there. You know. In the gallery she _owns_?”

 

Clarke processes the information, watching him pop a piece of bruschetta into his mouth. “So that’s why she was all nice to you.” At his quizzical expression, she waves her fork vaguely. “Opening night of the exhibit? When I introduced you?” She rolls her eyes deliberately. “To someone you apparently already met?”

 

He leans back slightly in his chair, swallowing his mouthful to smirk at her. “Maybe she was nice because she likes me.”

 

Clarke rolls her eyes again, purposely focusing her attention on her food. “Anya makes it a point to be a bitch to everyone the first time. Once she decides you’re worth her time, she’s always nice after that.” She wrinkles her nose in consideration. “She’s polite enough, at least.”

 

He laughs slightly, the sound free and relaxed. “Is it so hard to believe your boss might not have hated me on sight?”

 

“I don’t know,” she replies, arching a brow at him. “Is it so hard to tell the truth about someone else who isn’t me _not_ falling for the charming rebel act?”

 

He grins at that, yellow light splashed across his features. “Alright, fine. She _was_ kind of testy the first time.”

 

“There we go,” Clarke says, her tone dripping sarcasm as she sends him a derisively sweet smile. He’s smiling right back at her, no traces of mockery in his expression. She shifts in her seat, looking back down at her plate. “Not that it matters to you, anyway, does it?”

 

“It does to you,” Bellamy comments, matter-of fact. “You value her opinion.”

 

“Maybe,” Clarke rejoins, quicker on the recovery route this time round. “But yours, I don’t care so much for.”

 

He laughs again, shaking his head in a way that’s both familiar and unfamiliar. Like the fond exasperation he’s always showing around Octavia, or Jasper, or any of their other friends — and yet, totally different.

 

She tries the slice of bruschetta he’d left on her plate, humming in enthused agreement when he asks if it’s good. She pushes her plate of ceviche towards him in an insistent offer, and he reaches out with his fork obligingly. His brows shoot up into his hairline once the forkful enters his mouth.

 

“Okay, princess,” he says with a slow nod, once he’s chewed through the bite of fresh shrimp. “Fuck the bruschetta. Next time, we’re both getting ceviche.”

 

She feels a flush blooming across the back of her neck at the phrase _‘next time’_. Clearing her throat in a dubious attempt at chasing it away, she glances up at him. “How’d you know, anyway? That I was going to order this?” she explains, at the questioning lift of his brow.

 

He looks at her for half a second longer before picking up his wineglass. “You mentioned it, actually.”

 

Her face scrunches in confusion. “I did?” As far as she can remember, the last exchange she had with Bellamy involved eight F-bombs and two physical assault threats.

 

“Friday, at Grounders,” he says, swirling his glass in slow motions, eyes focused on the buttery liquid. “You were, uh, talking about this place. With Raven.”

 

She frowns, the tines of her fork sinking into another shrimp. “You knew I was gonna be here tonight?”

 

His gaze whips to hers, blinking rapidly. “What? No—” he shifts forward in his seat, setting the glass down. “—No, I didn’t know that!”

 

She regards him wordlessly, both brows still raised expectantly.

 

He meets her gaze carefully. “I looked the place up online, and I saw it on their menu. So I figured you’d be going for that.”

 

She remains silent, looking at him steadily, not bothering to hide the suspicion in her gaze.

 

He sighs, eyes dropping to the table before returning to hold hers. “That group dinner we had at Mount Weather? You asked for ceviche, and you were pretty upset when they said they’d stopped serving it.”

 

“Mount …” she trails off, realisation settling over her. “Bellamy, that was the dinner we had to celebrate my graduation.” She stares at his face, her fork forgotten. “Over two years ago.”

 

His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Yeah. Sounds about right.”

 

“How do you remember that?” she asks, now thoroughly unsure on what emotion it is that’s coursing through her veins.

 

She watches as one of his shoulders jerks upward in a half-shrug. “Like I said, you were pretty upset.” Another beat goes by, and he suddenly slips back into his smooth, charismatic persona. “Just how it goes, right? The princess doesn’t get what she wants, and the whole world just has to stop for her.”

 

She blinks, but the spike of fury that usually pricks at her whenever he calls her that specifically to provoke her doesn’t come.

 

“Right,” she says quietly, eyes returning to her food. “How it goes.”

 

She remembers that dinner, at Mount Weather. She hadn’t thrown a tantrum or anything — she wasn’t six, for goodness' sake. She’d just nodded and thanked the waiter, letting him move on to take Monty’s order next. She hadn’t wanted to spoil the mood by showing her disappointment.

 

It suddenly dawns on her that while she’s never outright referred to Bellamy as a friend, she’s known him just as long as all of her other friends. In fact, the only person she’s known longer than him is Octavia — and even then, that acquaintance outlives this one by a mere thirty minutes. She’s known Bellamy even longer than she’s known Raven and Lincoln, the two people who are most definitely her favourites. She’s grown irreversibly used to picking up on his subtle mood shifts, automatically reading behind the mask of easygoing appeal that’s always his default in social situations. She hadn’t quite realised that the opposite might be true — that he could understand her just as effortlessly as she does him.

 

She’s not even all that surprised to find him at a seafood restaurant on his day off — he’s always seemed to like it more than burgers or steak.

 

It just might be possible, she thinks as she watches him steal another forkful of ceviche, that all their years of fighting has effectively distracted her from how well they’ve actually gotten to know each other.

 

“This shit,” Bellamy says, a little louder than strictly necessary, “is seriously something else. Do you think they’d give us the recipe if we asked?”

 

“Typical,” she says, letting challenge tinge her teasing tone. “Bellamy Blake wants something, and now the whole world just has to stop for him.”

 

His eyes widen in surprise.

 

Suddenly, they’re both laughing.

 

They polish off the rest of her ceviche, navigating effortlessly through Bellamy’s classes, Raven’s recent promotion and Octavia and Lincoln’s impending nuptials.

 

“I’m happy for O, I really am,” Bellamy says after thanking the waitress, looking over his sea bass with visible anticipation. “But now it’s like she’s decided that I can’t be single if she isn’t. She’s always on my ass to go out and meet someone, go ask this person out on a date, say yes to a setup with that girl she knows.” He shakes his head, sliding his knife easily into the soft meat. “What’s the word for when someone goes bridezilla, but instead of a wedding it’s about other people being single?”

 

“I think it’s ‘family’,” Clarke tells him dryly, lifting a forkful of salmon to her mouth. “You really only have yourself to blame for this, you know.”

 

He glances up at her, brows knitting together in puzzlement. “What? Why me?”

 

She rolls her eyes, lips curving upward at his perplexed expression. What a dork. “Gee, let me think. Octavia’s hounding you twenty-four-seven because she loves you and wants the best for you and just wants to see you happy, except she can’t just come out and say all that to your face.” She pulls a face, tapping a finger to her jaw. “Hmm. Where on _earth_ could she _possibly_ get _that_ from?”

 

“Okay, fine, thank you,” Bellamy says, eyes narrowing at her. The effect is ruined by the stretch of his smiling mouth. “Very helpful, princess, as always.”

 

She grins playfully, picking her refilled wineglass up to raise it in his direction. “I live to serve.”

 

She ends up having more of the sea bass, which is fine by him since he seems to prefer her salmon anyway. They both agree that the ceviche is still better than either main course, taking turns to grouse about why the item is only available as an appetiser. They sink even further into the comfort of familiarity, all too acquainted with what the other is like when severely peeved with something.

 

They do hit a tiny bump when the waitress materialises to clear their empty plates.

 

“Can we get you a dessert menu?” she asks, her smile somewhat less bright after surviving the better part of the evening dashing back and forth between tables with overladen trays of food.

 

Clarke glances quickly at Bellamy, but he’s already looking at her, brows raised in uncertainty. She hesitates for all of one second before turning back to the waitress with a _‘yes, thank you’_ , smiling as the server nods, another valiant smile firmly in place, handing them a couple smaller menus from her large apron pocket before retreating to the kitchen.

 

They stare vaguely down at their dessert menus for a full thirty seconds of awkward silence.

 

“The ganache,” she begins stiltedly, tucking her hair back behind her ear, “has amazing reviews.”

 

“Yeah, I saw,” he says, nodding to himself. “But, uh, I also saw that it’s more of a … sharing thing.”

 

Clarke flushes, suddenly remembering the reviews with stark clarity. _Great romantic dessert! Perfect to split with your date._ “Oh, right. Uh, maybe I’ll just get—” her eyes rove rapidly over the short list, “—the cheesecake, then. Or something.”

 

She doesn’t get a chance to catch his reaction. The waitress suddenly reappears, PDA already in hand.

 

“What can we get you for dessert?” she asks, smiling down at them expectantly.

 

“Um, I’ll have the cheesecake, please,” Clarke says, not looking up to meet her gaze. The heat spreading over her neck isn’t going away, and it’s fucking _inconvenient_.

 

“Are you sure?” the waitress asks, stylus hovering over the PDA screen. “Our ganache is extremely popular. It’s also half-off right now.”

 

Clarke does look up at that. So does Bellamy. “Half off?” he repeats.

 

“Yes, exclusively for dine-in couples,” the waitress explains cheerily. “Month-long special.”

 

Clarke lets herself look at Bellamy, finding him looking back at her with pretty much the same expression she’s probably wearing herself — a little uncomfortable, a little bemused, a whole lot of resignation.

 

“The ganache sounds great,” Clarke tells the waitress, her lips stretching in a smile before breaking away from Bellamy’s gaze to face the waitress. “We’ll take that. Scratch the cheesecake.”

 

The waitress nods, and takes their menus, departing once again to the sound of plastic tapping against plastic as she keys in their order.

 

Bellamy clears his throat, leaning forward. “Hey. Have you ever… ”

 

She waits, suddenly unable to breathe.

 

“… noticed how everyone who works here is always saying ‘we’?”

 

She blinks, air rushing out of her gut.

 

“They’re nice and all, totally professional,” Bellamy continues, too preoccupied with glancing around him at passing restaurant employees. “But it’s still kind of creepy, don’t you think? It’s always ‘ _we’ll_ do this’, or ‘what can _we_ do’.”

 

Clarke shakes her head slightly, letting out a laugh. She’s suddenly light and carefree, almost giddy with it. “Yeah. Yeah, maybe you’ve to sign your soul away to some sentient A.I. when you get hired here.”

 

“Become part of a collective hive mind.” Bellamy agrees, nodding his thanks at the waiter who brings them a single plate with two fresh napkins and two forks on it. “I bet if you trace this all the way to the top, Steve Jobs is the real founder of this establishment.”

 

“It’s been open two months, Bellamy,” she says, arching her brow at him over the rim of her wineglass. “Steve Jobs has been dead for a while now, in case you’ve forgotten.”

 

Bellamy grins at her conspiratorially. “Or so they want you to think.”

 

They continue to debate the possibility of Steve Jobs having uploaded his entire consciousness to a computer all throughout dessert. They get stuck for a particularly long time on the actual logistics of maintaining that kind of influence on the tech world in that way as they slowly work through the last of the ganache — which is, as Clarke had expected, out of this fucking world. Goddamn _nuclear_ levels of deliciousness.

 

The bill comes, and it takes no time at all for them to slip back into combat mode, pushing each other’s hands away insistently with threats of physical injury that are considerably milder than their usual fare.

 

“Look, Bellamy,” she finally says, one hand held out to fend him off as she places her card firmly in the bill folder, “in all seriousness, it’s _fine_. This is your day off, anyway.”

 

“It’s yours too,” he points out, jaw clenching in a way she somehow recognises as him trying to exercise restraint. She resists the urge to smile at that, pressing her lips together so he doesn’t think she’s making fun of him.

 

“Yeah, but this is your _usual_ day off,” she says, shrugging as she waves the small leather folder at the waitress, the other hand still held out towards him in a gesture she means to be both defensive and reassuring. “To be fair, you crashed my spot in line earlier,” she says, grinning at him. “But it’s cool. You can just get the bill for next time, when we order like five ceviches.”

 

“Six,” he corrects, eyes following the bill folder as the waitress retrieves it from Clarke’s outstretched hand. His gaze swings back to her, alight but considerably more relaxed. “That’s just my order, by the way. What’re you having?”

 

They make their way towards the exit once Clarke gets her card back, still laughing over the ever-increasing number of ceviche orders they’ll place on their next visit.

 

They pause outside the restaurant, Bellamy shoving his hands into his coat pockets as Clarke zips up her jacket against the chill of the night air. It’s later than she’d originally thought — already pushing ten-thirty.

 

“You’re going this way, yeah?” he asks, gesturing with both hands still in his pockets, stretching his jacket out in front of him in a little lumpy triangle.

 

“Yeah,” she answers, blinking a little at the fact that he actually remembers where she lives. He’s never even _been_ to her apartment.

 

“Come on,” he says, cocking his head down the street. “I’m not that far from you.”

 

“I know,” she says, falling into step with him with a smile. “You’re really not.”

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

She wakes up the next morning to a text from Bellamy. It’s a screenshot of an ongoing exhibit down at the natural history museum. _‘My next class is at 3. In case you wanted to look at some displays that don’t make you want to stress-eat seventeen plates of raw fish,’_ his message reads.

 

She scoffs to herself, sitting up in bed. She pulls up the text box to reply.

 

**see you there in an hour.**

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this! always a miracle when someone makes it all the way to the end of my rambling bellarke nonsense.
> 
> kudos to YOU if you've left me kudos. hur, hur, hur.
> 
> comments are very much appreciated because i am easy to please and i will continue to be easy till the day i die


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